A Death of Distinction (14 page)

It wasn't until they were drinking their second cups of coffee that she had suddenly said, ‘Well, where shall we begin?'

It was easier for both of them after that, after she'd made the first move. They talked, gradually becoming easier with each other, and the more he listened, the more he became buoyed up and encouraged with the knowledge that whatever he might do for her, it would not be too much.

He also knew that she hadn't told him the most important thing that he wanted to hear, swallowing hard on the fact that perhaps she never would. The last secluded years had added to her natural reticence; perhaps she felt that if she revealed every last thing, she would truly have nothing of her own left. He could hardly blame her. After all, there were certain things he'd also kept to himself.

It was very late by the time they finished. And all the time they were talking, Avril knitted, and listened, and hardly spoke a word.

Nothing much disturbed WDC Platt's good humour, and as usual she'd given as good as she got from the rest of the team about her present assignment. Having said her piece, she then grinned and got on with it, this allegedly cushy number she'd landed, working here in Lilburne's private study at his home, a room which overlooked the sweep of the gardens. It was a task which was in fact turning out to be mind-bendingly dull. Her brief was to go through Lilburne's personal papers, with no particular guidance on what to look for, except to pick up anything unusual. So far the files in his desk – those left after Inspector Moon had lifted his bank statements and so on – hadn't yielded anything except routine stuff... receipted bills, copies of guarantees and agreements, insurances and the like. She was very nearly finished with them, then it would be on to the letters of congratulation which he'd received on the announcement of his OBE award in the press. Crikey, there were hundreds of them, or so it appeared, all saying much the same thing in different ways, as far as Jenny could gather from an initial flip through.

‘You'll see he'd marked the ones he'd answered, which I think was most of them by now. He was working through them steadily, answering as many as he could manage each day,' his wife had told her. ‘I don't know what you're likely to glean from them, but you're welcome to try. They weren't all complimentary, by airy means – you know how some people feel about the Honours List – but I think he had the good sense to throw those away.'

Mrs Lilburne had accepted the invasion of her privacy without question and seen to it that Jenny was comfortable, had switched on the electric fire which supplemented the small radiator and sent in coffee and biscuits – best china, chocolate digestives. While appreciating all this, Jenny was, however, in danger of nodding off, reflecting that even Deeley and Carmody, in the thankless pursuit of all persons Irish or terroristically inclined, might be having the last laugh after all – at least they weren't cooped up indoors. She went to turn the fire off and open a window to let in some fresh air, and with her hand on the window latch, noticed a girl with a couple of old spaniels at her heels, walking aimlessly across the lawn towards the house, dragging her feet. She was wearing black leggings and heavy, lace-up shoes and a big, loose, dark-grey sweater that covered her from chin to thigh. Her hair blew about her face and she was very pale.

Had it not been for the dressing on her forehead, Jenny would have had difficulty in recognizing her as the sexy Flora Lilburne who waltzed around her upmarket second-hand clothes shop, a bright, bouncy young woman with a sunny smile and an easy, friendly manner. Jenny had been tempted into Mark Two once or twice, but had always come out empty-handed, the prices being way beyond her careful budget and most of the clothes, when it came down to it, too extravagant for her lifestyle.

As Flora came listlessly towards the house and then disappeared, Jenny notched the window open and returned to the papers. Half an hour passed, with no more success than she'd had before, and she was nearly ready to start on the pile of letters when there was a knock and Flora came in, asking if she'd finished with the tray.

She had seemed entirely absorbed in her own unhappiness, but as she came forward, she looked curiously at Jenny. ‘Haven't I seen you somewhere before?' she asked, her brow wrinkled. ‘I know, you're a customer of ours – Mark Two, the dress shop in Fetter Hill? I'm Flora Lilburne.'

‘Jenny Platt. Not a customer, I'm afraid, only a browser, so far. Out of my price range.'

‘We're always open to negotiation.'

‘Even so.' Jenny smiled, pushing back her chair to get the coffee tray.

‘No, leave it, I'll get it.' Flora wandered across to the small table where Jenny had left the coffee things, but she didn't pick up the tray immediately, nor did she leave. Sinking into an armchair as if the effort of walking across the room had exhausted her, she sat pale and dejected, absently nibbling one of the remaining chocolate biscuits, watching Jenny as she resumed her work.

‘What made you decide on such a boring job as the police?' she asked after a minute or two, as Jenny closed the last file.

‘It's a job.' Jenny shrugged, then feeling that this was somehow letting the side down, she added firmly, ‘And it's not boring – well, not always, quite the opposite, sometimes. I'm just doing what I'm told. At the moment.'

‘One of the ambitious ones,' Flora said.

‘Sort of.' And what was wrong with that, Jenny asked silently. And not half as much, anyway, as some she could name – Abigail Moon, for instance.

‘I've never wanted to do anything that badly. Well, I used to think I'd like to be a nanny, once.'

‘Why didn't you?'

‘Oh, I don't know. My mother nearly had kittens at the idea. And anyway, you need to be a saint to look after other folks' kids ... and I'm not brainy enough for anything more interesting.' Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. Then, as Jenny drew the basket of letters towards her, her interest sharpened. ‘Don't tell me you have to go through all those?'

‘Afraid so.'

‘Why? You don't suppose the person who murdered him wrote to him and announced his intentions first, do you?' she said disbelievingly. ‘Anyway, he threw all the hate mail away.'

‘Hate mail?' Jenny inquired, ignoring the first part of what Flora had said. ‘Did he get much?'

‘Some – one or two. Well, no, not really
hate.
Letters from people who didn't approve of the honours system, or thought he should refuse on principle. Some who thought it was just a pat on the head from the Establishment – well, you know, the sort who can't bear anybody to have
anything ...
What are you expecting to find?'

‘A lot of our work consists of looking for things we don't know we're looking for until we find them.'

Flora had come to the desk and was beginning to leaf through the letters. ‘Well, I can't see any of the nasties. He must have thrown them all away, as I said. These seem to be all the nice ones.' She lifted a clutch, picking out phrases at random, ‘ “... recognition of your sterling services ...” “... no one deserves it better ...” “... crowning your career ...” ' Her lips twisted. ‘And I'll bet half of them hardly knew him.'

‘I think you underestimate people's sincerity,' Jenny replied, in a prissy tone she hardly recognized as coming from herself.

The doorbell rang, the drone of a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the house was switched off. The dogs barked, then stopped. The silence sounded very loud. ‘Oh God, you're right, that was a hateful thing to say. I'm a bitch ... people
were
pleased for him, really.' Flora had drawn her hands up inside the sleeves of the sweater, and crossed her arms, hugging herself as if she were cold. ‘Which isn't surprising. Everyone liked Da who knew him.'

Her mouth trembled. A tear spilled, and rolled down her face. She dived into a pocket and pulled out a screwed-up wad of tissues and began to scrub her face. Jenny said awkwardly, ‘Cheer up, it can't last for ever, you know.'

‘I don't see why not.'

She was only eighteen, and she'd had a double shock, Jenny reminded herself, narrowly missing death and suddenly losing a beloved father, in a particularly horrible way. She obviously had a capacity for self-dramatization, but Jenny thought perhaps she was a girl who'd bounce back, that she was basically a nice girl, too, a lot nicer than in her own estimation.

A knock on the door was followed by a young woman clad in a short pink nylon overall cut like a tabard and worn over black trousers and T-shirt, her face barely visible behind a huge sheaf of cellophane-wrapped flowers which she held out to Flora. ‘Who's a lucky girl, then?' she asked archly. ‘Look what somebody's sent you!'

‘For me, Sue?'

Flora, still sniffing, appeared mystified as she took the bouquet and searched for a card which she finally found tucked in among the elaborate loops and twirls of pink paper ribbon which decorated the cellophane. ‘Oh.'

The prospect of having to arrange in a vase the unlikely combination of out-of-season magenta chrysanthemums, irises, pink hothouse roses and huge, Day-Glo, Magic Roundabout daisies was quite daunting enough, in Jenny's opinion, to account for the expression of surprise and dismay on Flora's face. Anyone who put together such a combination didn't deserve the name of florist. But it seemed to be the card rather than the flowers which was at fault. Having read it, Flora thrust it into her pocket with an abrupt gesture. From where she sat, Jenny hadn't been able to read the message, but the name at the bottom, written in the same round, schoolgirlish hand, probably the florist's, was clear enough, though it meant nothing to her. Mark, it said.

When they'd gone, bearing away the coffee tray and the flowers, Jenny sat thinking.

Ninety-nine per cent of the congratulatory letters she'd read were warm and sincere, glad to see such a distinction going to someone who really deserved it, rather than given as a gesture. Only a tiny minority could have written to him for reasons of self-interest, self-promotion, because it was the done thing.

But there was one which didn't fall into either category, and which in no way could be classed as hate mail.

One which she'd noticed on first flipping through the pile, and which Flora hadn't found, if that had been her purpose in shuffling through the other letters, because Jenny had already slid it under the basket.

For the second time in a week, Abigail snagged her tights on the doorjamb of the CID room, and swore in a fashion decidedly not ladylike.

‘Doesn't anybody ever take notice of complaints around here? I've asked for this door to be reported twice. Do I have to bring sandpaper in and do it myself?'

One or two male shoulders were shrugged, but since it was a rhetorical question, demanded of the noisy CID room in general, few heard and nobody bothered to answer. It wasn't a problem they shared. Jenny Platt wasn't there and who else cared about snagged tights, one pound twenty a go, and this time no spare pair in her drawer? Abigail thought of the files piled up on her desk, looked at the clock and the serious ladder running right down the front of her leg and decided that for decency's sake, buying a new pair had to win. Catesby's, Lavenstock's answer to Harrods, was anyway only five minutes' walk round the corner. She leaned across Deeley's desk. ‘Pete.'

‘Ma'am?' the DC responded absently.

‘Put a squib behind maintenance and get this damned doorjamb seen to, pronto. You, personally. I'll be back in about half an hour.'

Deeley sat up. ‘Ma'am.'

For a provincial town, Catesby's wasn't bad. It still clung to many of its old-fashioned ways, but you could buy most things there, given you didn't expect London choices. Abigail rushed through Perfumery into the department selling underwear, gloves, hats and tights, decided to go for broke and grabbed a dozen packs of the most appropriate pair, not intending to be caught out again in the foreseeable future.

‘Tell me how you do it,' said a cool voice across the Lycra support tights and pop sox. ‘I've been here ten minutes and still haven't found the right shade.'

Claudia Reynolds, casually smart in cinnamon and black, big gold earrings swinging, blonde hair loose round her shoulders. Abigail envied the panache that could contrive elegance out of a zipped wool tunic over a polo-necked sweater, ski pants ...

‘Oh, hello. Case of needs must ... Theoretically, I keep a spare pair at the office. It's remembering to replace the spare that does it.' She looked at the other woman, mentally rearranged her schedule and said, ‘Have you time for a quick coffee? I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes.'

Claudia looked at her speculatively, then smiled. ‘Sure, why not? I've got the whole day free.'

‘I hope it won't take that long.'

Catesby's coffee shop, leading off Ladies' Fashions, was never overcrowded midweek, though always well patronized, as it was today: young mothers meeting for coffee after seeing the children off to school, retired couples, dropping in on their way home from Tesco's, grandmothers remembering more gracious days when one wore hats to meet one's friends in Catesby's, for tea and scones and walnut cake, with a string trio playing in the background ... ah, those were the days! Nowadays, it was espresso coffee and Coke, slices of quiche and pizza and microwaved baked potatoes, and the string trio gone for ever.

‘I saw you at the meeting the other night,' Claudia said as they found a place in front of a wide window that gave a panoramic view of the town.

Abigail hadn't expected to remain unnoticed, though she and Ben had sat at the back of the hall and slipped out as soon as it was clear as to which conclusion the meeting was leading.

‘Sorry I couldn't stay ... I admired the way you tackled it,' she said.